


typewriter and pen

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: the secret of art is love [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 03:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10982508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: James Madison fills notebooks with poetry, folders with typewriter pages of prose. His pockets are always full of pens. He writes the words that his soft rasp of a voice can't hope to harness, describes the art his shaking hands can't create, pours love into every letter.





	typewriter and pen

On Monday afternoon, James closes his eyes and sets down his pen, tilting his chair back and taking in the smell of paint and baking bread, which is unusual, but not unpleasant. The creative writing classroom is tucked away between an art classroom and a culinary classroom, saved from the cheap plastic and sweat smell of the rest of the school. Tranquility doesn't have a smell, but if it did, James thinks it would smell like buttered rolls and acrylics, with the faint undercurrent of fresh printer paper.

That sounds like the beginning of a poem, so James opens his eyes. He reaches for his notebook, since he's already written on the piece of parchment Alex brought him, and his typewriter is occupied with yet another winding piece of purple prose about Thomas Jefferson.

(Purple prose, purple jacket, purple bruises, platonic purple hearts signing texts.)

He scribbles a couple verses about what certain feelings might smell like, (love is French cologne and minty toothpaste and coconut oil and nail polish,) and then the bell rings to end fourth period.

*

Tuesday afternoon, in the last few minutes of class, Alex Hamilton brings him a fresh piece of parchment, and James pays him in poetry. Alex chatters, James coughs, the transaction drags on, seeped in small talk, and Alex invites him, as he does every time they meet, to join the art class, ("there are open slots, a couple students drop out every few months,") and James politely declines, just as he does every time.

"It won't work out," he says, in lieu of an explanation, and Alex laughs sadly, tilting his head and blinking at James. They both smile wistfully.

"I wish I could." James says, curls his minutely trembling hands into fists in his hoodie pockets, running his thumb over the pill bottle tucked inside, cursing the illness that robbed him of the smooth strokes of calligraphy and neat handwriting. "I just... can't."

"I miss you." Alex blurts. "Working with you, I mean. The calligraphy project?"

The bell rings. John Jay (he wrote five words before he broke his wrist in a skateboarding accident) is somewhere in the crowd of students that pour into the hallway. Alex drops his gaze to the floor, and James reaches out and grasps his hand. For a moment, they're still, the world moving around them, before they're turning to go their separate ways, and James feels the all-too-familiar ache of something lost and left behind.

*

Wednesday, he has a coughing fit that turns into something worse, and spends fourth period (he's supposed to be among the clack of typewriters and the scratch of pens and the smell of bread and paint) curled up on the cot in the nurse's office, with Thomas on one side of him and Aaron Burr on the other, coughing and wheezing and trying not to sob. Warm hands press against his back and arms, but he's cold and alone despite it.

Alex texts him, asking where he is, and Aaron and Thomas argue over who gets to respond, until James tilts his head into Aaron's shoulder, and Thomas gasps in mock offense, which makes them all laugh a little. James feels a bit warmer.

Aaron and Alex get into a text-fight, which would have happened no matter who was texting, but it would have been worse with Thomas on one side of it.

(One side of a battlefield, one-sided adoration, one side of a man shaken by illness, one side of a heart)

James smiles. Aaron smells like paint, Thomas smells like the wood and rosin of the orchestra room. James connects the combination to comfort.

*

On Thursday, James writes seventeen poems in the hour he has in fourth period. Three for Alex, twelve for Thomas, two abstract rants about his illness and frustration, and walks next door to the art room to talk to Alex and Thomas, who are sitting cross-legged on one of the tables, bickering over a drawing of what looks like Aaron's hand covering his face. James decides not to ask, and they pause their argument to smile at him. Aaron is smirking from nearby, doodling absently.

Thomas wraps an arm around James' shoulders, and Alex takes the opportunity to snatch the sketchbook back with a gleeful shout that sends him toppling over backwards, and James feels his heart swell with the realization of home.

*

On Friday, James runs into Thomas as he's leaving the classroom, literally runs into him, sprawling to the ground, his papers spilling from his arms. Before he can move to stop him, Thomas is picking up the papers, his eyes catching on the words. James squawks breathlessly, gasping breath back into his lungs to tell him  _no no no don't read those that's my heart please don't look_

And then Thomas laughs, bright and sharp, and James feels darkness crawl over him with each word.

"You wrote all these for  _me_?"

James scrambles to his feet and runs, leaves Thomas with armfuls of poetry and prose, runs and hides.

*

Of course he can't have a panic attack in peace, of course Alex (worried, manic) and Aaron (quiet, kind) and Thomas (bewildered, confused) come running after him. They care, they care too much. It overwhelms him.

Aaron crams himself under the sink next to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, says nothing (typical)

James can hear Alex shouting at Thomas, and it almost makes him feel better. Aaron's hand is warm and steady. He's breathing slowly and deeply, and James slowly matches him. He doesn't say anything, just smiles gently and waits for him to catch his breath.

Thomas bursts in, stammering apologies, and Aaron and Alex stand like guard dogs, ready to interfere on either side.

"I didn't... I had no idea... I didn't know..." Thomas is babbling, and he grabs James' hands, feels them shaking and holds them tighter. "I didn't know you saw me like..." he holds up the papers, covered in messy handwriting and blocky typewriter letters, and smiles, beams. "... like this."

And then he lurches forward and kisses him, and no poetry in the world could ever measure up.


End file.
